


My Funny Valentine

by GhostofBeltanesPast



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Anxious Reader, Comedy of Errors, F/M, Handmade Chocolates, Love Confessions, Valentine's Day, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 23:54:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29427036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostofBeltanesPast/pseuds/GhostofBeltanesPast
Summary: You're a file clerk in the Citadel -- andthisyear is going to be the one you finally tell Marshal Leonis how you feel. Valentine's Day is the perfect time...right?
Relationships: Cor Leonis/Original Female Character(s), Cor Leonis/Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 11





	My Funny Valentine

**Author's Note:**

> Rated T for some moderate swears, but there's no lewds this time. Just pure, sweet feels.
> 
> [Title taken from the Gershwin song of the same name.]

You wait in the hallway, heart in your throat, as you try to remember what you’re going to say. Simple, keep it simple...just ‘hello’. Or, no, maybe ‘good afternoon’.  
  
That’s too formal, you can’t say that.   
  
Besides, the important part isn’t the greeting, it’s everything after that! You have a plan, after all. Greet Marshal Leonis, hand him the little box of chocolates you spent far too much time last night making, tell him you’re interested, and then accept whatever he says gracefully.   
  
And then cry in the nearest bathroom, of course -- you’ve already mapped out the entire route, breakdown-friendly bathrooms included. There are no fewer than four bathrooms in this wing that would be acceptable options, but only two are close enough to make it there before anyone can get a good look at you, and only one is fully private...and of course, privacy is important, where breakdowns are concerned. _Especially_ on a day like today.   
  
After all, if anyone hears you crying today, they’ll know exactly why you’re in tears...and chances are good someone will have seen you, and they’ll _really_ know -- beyond a general awareness of rejection, that is -- and they’ll tell people, surely, and everyone will _laugh_ \-   
  
But you’re getting ahead of yourself.   
  
It’s 11:57, and he nearly always leaves his office just at or after noon to go to the cafeteria for lunch...and your goal is to waylay him _before_ , so that you can spend your own lunch break crying in a bathroom in peace, instead of trying to pretend you’re fine and can’t see the pitying looks from your coworkers through the haze of tears.   
  
You should have a few more minutes to collect yourself.   
  
And yet…   
  
The footsteps coming down the marble hall are unmistakably his, the particularity of his gait, and the boots he wears, and his sheer _size_ combining to create a rather distinctive (if surprisingly quiet) sound.   
  
It’s now or never.   
  
You open your mouth...and freeze.   
  
The words don’t come -- _the words won’t come_ \-- and he starts to pass you, nodding politely.   
  
You turn and take one faltering step after him. “M. Marshal?”   
  
He pauses.   
  
Turns.   
  
Looks at you, curiously.   
  
“Yes?” His voice is sinfully good, deep and just rough enough to have a fascinating texture…   
  
The words still aren’t coming.   
  
Time for Plan B, then...or it would be if you’d ever _made_ one. For some reason, though, you’d been under the impression that you could speak to him like you had now and then in the cafeteria, or elsewhere around the citadel, exchanging polite greetings and the occasional pleasantry. After all, it wasn’t so hard there. Why should it be more difficult now?   
  
Ah, but that was foolish of you...of course, today of all days, any eloquence you might otherwise have is long gone.   
  
All you can do is improvise, then -- and unless you plan to explain yourself through pantomime, action will have to suffice.   
  
You proffer the little wrapped box. “These are for you,” you manage.   
  
He doesn’t look disgusted, and that’s a relief; you hadn’t _really_ been afraid that he would, but in some of your darker paranoid fantasies, he had been. It’s nice that he isn’t actually horrified or offended that you’d dare to give him chocolates.   
  
And he certainly isn’t upset…   
  
...really, he looks confused, more than anything.   
  
“Thank you,” he says.   
  
You smile.   
  
He nods.   
  
Like a fool, you stand there mutely, screaming internally as you scramble for words. Any words. Anything at all that will explain your intent to him, before he’s gone and you’ve missed your chance entirely -- even gibberish would do, probably, although that might simply be the desperation talking.   
  
After a few seconds, he turns and continues down the hall.   
  
You could die, you think. You could die right now, and you might not even mind, if it meant you never had to think about this moment ever again.   
  
Was that even a rejection? You’re still not sure he knows what the chocolates were meant to mean -- what if he thinks they’re obligatory? That you’re giving them to everyone?   
  
That, at least, he’ll notice isn’t true...and they _are_ handmade...and that _does_ mean something, of course!   
  
But, then again, this _is_ Marshal Leonis. His idea of a work-life balance is to heap everything on one side of the scale and call it a day.   
  
You’re too shaken by the encounter to even cry -- and you feel too sick to want to eat. There’s a nice enough veranda you could sit on, though, and in the afternoon it should be reasonably warm, shouldn’t it? Surely you don’t need to go all the way back to the office to get your coat. There will be other filing clerks in there, the ones who prefer a quieter lunchtime, and you know they saw the box when you left...which means they know.   
  
Which means, likely as not, they’ll _ask_ .   
  
And even if you’re not in danger of crying right now, you’re pretty sure you might, if anyone were to press you too much.   
  
Yeah, you’ll be fine...your stubbornness alone should buoy you through any biting winds that might threaten to freeze your nipples off even through your sweater and bra -- and that’s assuming there even _are_ any, something you’re not convinced of.   
  
“It’ll be _fine_ ,” you mutter to yourself as you push the door open.   
  
And then, “ _holy shit._ ”   
  
The frigid gust that does indeed blow right through your cashmere sweater and petal-pink twilled trousers is almost enough to stop you…   
  
...almost…   
  
But you can hear someone walking down the hallway again, and you don’t want to be around if they take it into their head to try to talk with you. You’ve always been pretty friendly; chatting with people around the Citadel is something you enjoy. They’re used to it, and you’re used to it, and usually it’s fine -- except for today.   
  
Gritting your teeth, you step outside into the ice-encrusted nightmare of the veranda.   
  
Oh, it’s pretty to look at! It would make for lovely photographs, and perhaps if you were properly-dressed, it would be a nice change of pace. Insomnia rarely gets snow, and the few inches dusted over the city have slowed operations as everyone who can stays in to avoid the cold and the wet and the general inconvenience of having to deal with _actual weather_ .   
  
This week alone, you’ve heard so many pitying comments about how hard it must be to live in Niflheim that you’ve started to consider recording them on your phone to play back when you hear the selfsame people talk about how awful anyone from Niflheim must be, to allow their government to do what it does -- not that the common people have any say, you’d like to remind them, given that it’s an _empire_ .   
  
You have to admit, shivering on the veranda and wondering if it’s safe to go back inside yet, that you feel a bit more sympathy for the citizens of Niflheim in situations like this, too.   
  
And just as you’re about to turn and go back into the blessed warmth of the Citadel, a building with functioning heaters and insulation, making it approximately one million times more preferable than standing out in the frozen wasteland of the very pretty little veranda with the lovely view of downtown, the door behind you opens.   
  
_Shit_ .   
  
You shuffle to the side to make way for whoever it is, and stare determinedly out at the city. “Lovely day for it,” you say brightly -- as much as you can manage, anyway, with your teeth _actually_ chattering. In an attempt to cover up your reason for being out there, you laugh and start making up some ridiculous anecdote. “You know, I read in a magazine that in some of the Northern climates, after being in a sauna for a while, they roll in the snow? It’s said to be good for the body, the shock to the system...I’m not sure I’d like either extreme too much, but I thought maybe since I was so warm inside, I’d step out here for a bit, and-”   
  
A coat, much too large for even your plump frame, is draped over your shoulders. The leather is buttery-soft, and smells like something wonderful and spicy, and best of all, it’s _blessedly warm_ .   
  
Paradoxically, this makes you tremble even harder, and before you know it, there is an enormous hand gripping your upper arm and hauling you back through the door and into the hallway.   
  
_That_ , unfortunately, is _also_ the moment you look down at the coat.   
  
Recognition dawns, thirty seconds too late.   
  
You swallow, and slowly drag your eyes back up to the Marshal’s unimpressed expression. “I’m terribly sorry, here...this is yours, you ought to…”   
  
He holds a hand out as you try to remove the coat, a motion clearly meaning one thing: _stay_ .   
  
Gods help you, you’re not a dog, but you’d follow any command he gave...even one as embarrassing as that.   
  
You settle, and fold your hands together in front of you; it means you can fidget with your own fingers, which you’d normally try not to do, but can you really embarrass yourself more than you already have? If it helps you get through the scolding you’re now certain is coming, you’ll take it -- a (hopefully) subtle glance at your watch tells you that you’re nearly out of time to cry in the bathroom, anyway, so you’d better just get this over with and try to keep calm until after work.   
  
“You are aware of the date,” he starts, frowning at you.   
  
Or is that his normal expression? It can be so hard to tell. The Marshal always looks at least a _bit_ like he’s frowning, if he’s not actually smiling...and that’s a rare sight.   
  
You nod. Here it comes...and all you can do is try to take it like a grown-up. “That’s why I gave you the chocolates. I made them for you.” The admission is somehow less frightening than you thought it would be; your throat is still tight, and the nerves leave you queasy, but you’re not really dizzy...yet. Perhaps there’s cause for hope.   
  
Then again, his frown only deepens at that response, and your heart sinks rapidly.   
  
“...it’s Valentine’s Day?” you hazard, hoping that perhaps he’s simply misunderstood. “It’s conventional to give chocolates on Valentine’s Day.”   
  
“I’m aware that it’s conventional to give chocolates on Valentine’s Day,” he says wryly.   
  
You suppose that was a stupid enough thing to say...of course he knows. He’s probably been given so many already that he doesn’t even want to look at chocolate for another year, even halfway through the day…   
  
...wait. That...that couldn’t be why he came to see you...right? He wouldn’t come to return the chocolate, would he?   
  
You stare at your feet, uneasiness overtaking your determination quickly. “Then...are you asking about my intentions?”   
  
The noise he makes is ambiguous enough that you can’t interpret it without looking -- and you’re not about to look, right now. As painful as the wondering is, you’re too afraid of what you might see. Your eyes are already burning.   
  
“Continue.”   
  
Gods, he makes it sound like you’re giving a report of some kind. You _wish_ this was just a report. Something easy you could cloak in neutral language, no messy emotion involved. But you can’t keep him waiting, surely, and at this point you really _do_ want to be put out of your misery, whether by rejection or the thrust of a sword-point.   
  
“I’ve...been interested. In you, Marshal. For a while.” Could you possibly make this sound more like a joke? You sniff back the tears that threaten, and continue. “I, I know it’s…” You cut yourself off and try again. No self-deprecation during confessions.   
  
Sighing, you offer a hesitant smile. Meeting his eyes feels like you might as well be signing your resignation papers (you hope it won’t come to that, but you can’t say you aren’t afraid of it), but you do it. _Be an adult_ , you remind yourself.   
  
“I find you attractive, Marshal. I like your conversation and your company. I’d like to know you better.” You nod to yourself. That’s more like it...and it only took you feeling utterly despondent to get you here. “That’s why I made those chocolates. I wanted you to know my interest is sincere.”   
  
For a long moment, he regards you calmly, expression as utterly inscrutable as ever -- and then, something changes in his eyes, and the corners of his mouth turn up in a small smile, and _gods_ , that’s _not_ how you expected him to be looking at you right now.   
  


He leans back against the wall, and crosses his arms over his chest. “Do you know, you’re the first one to confess to me like this?”  
  
You bite your lip, trying to stifle the disbelieving laugh you can feel bubbling up.   
  
It comes out as a snort instead. Your face and neck burn with embarrassment -- and you consider your exits -- and then.   
  
And _then_ .   
  
Marshal Leonis, Cor the Immortal, the stony-faced captain of the Crownsguard... _laughs_ .   
  
It’s soft, subdued -- oh, but that just makes it seem all the more _genuine_ , and suddenly shame isn’t the _only_ thing you’re burning with.   
  
You manage to choke out a question, strangled as it sounds. “Today, you mean?”   
  
He nods, seeming to understand your question. You almost want to sigh with relief.   
  
But he continues. “You’d think that, I guess. But no.”   
  
Objectively, rationally, you know he means that no one’s ever confessed to him on Valentine’s Day...you can’t imagine he means _ever_ , ever…   
  
“What, are they too scared?”   
  
You meant it as a joke, but the way he looks at you, you can’t help but wonder if that isn’t the reason. After all, you were terrified. Who’s to say others haven’t been, too? He’s notoriously hard to read, married to his job, and works a _dangerous_ job, at that. Injuries are the least of his concerns. Making it home alive is never guaranteed.   
  
And while you’ve got a feeling those concerns have stopped plenty of people…   
  
Well.   
  
You’re not sure if you’re stupid, reckless, just _that_ stubborn, or perhaps all of the above. But Astrals help you, if he’d give you a chance, you’d like to see where things could go between the two of you.   
  
“You’re not?” It’s said mildly -- and you suddenly remember yet another reason why most people keep to a polite distance with the Marshal. The near-clairvoyance, of course.   
  
You square your shoulders, sizing him up before you can remember your place and stop yourself. By that point, it’s too late; you may as well open your mouth and say another stupid thing. “I try not to let fear stop me from living.”   
  
You’re pretty sure you look as surprised as he does at the words that fall from your lips...secretly, though, you’re a bit impressed. It’s true, of course; you’re not dumb enough to lie to the Marshal under _any_ circumstances, but you can’t usually manage to say something not only coherent, but reasonably cool.   
  
He watches you for a few seconds longer, just enough for you to start getting anxious, but his phone chimes and he straightens, pushing off from the wall.   
  
You want to ask him to stay; this is probably the most intimate conversation you’ve had with him, yet, and you don’t want it to end -- you _desperately_ want to keep talking.   
  
But that would be presumptuous. Besides, you need to get back to work, too. Lunch is nearly over, and you’ve got a feeling the message is from one of his coworkers. Crownsguard Elshett, maybe. They do seem to be pretty close.   
  
You shrug his coat off, handing it back with a murmured thanks.   
  
He nods.   
  
And that’s it, you suppose -- he pulls out his phone and taps out a message before sliding it back into his pocket, seeming like a clear dismissal -- so you turn to leave.   
  
“________,” you hear.   
  
The first thing that registers is that he knows your name (which should be obvious, he _has_ called you by name, before, and it catches you off guard every damn time). The second is that he’s talking to you. The third is that you need to turn around and answer -- because the question is _important_ , even if it had taken a few seconds for you to figure out what was said.   
  
‘ _Can I take you to dinner?_ ’   
  
That was what he asked you, wasn’t it? You didn’t hallucinate that.   
  
You nod mutely, cheeks burning. “Yes, please.”   
  
He chuckles again, and smiles that soft little smile again. “You’d better get back. It’s a bit of a walk.”   
  
You nod again.   
  
The smile widens, ever so slightly. “ _Go_ . I’ll call you later.”   
  
There’s a part of you that wants to ask when he got your number -- and near-clairvoyance comes in handy, sometimes, as he sighs and explains. “You helped plan the holiday party last year...don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten?”   
  
Sure enough, as you think back, he had been your contact for the Crownsguard, with Monica and Dustin away on a mission at the time. “Right, the streamers,” you hear yourself say. There had been mix-ups with a delivery, and when push came to shove, you’d been about to give in to the driver’s insistence that you accept the wrong package, just to keep the peace.   
  
It had been Cor who stepped in and sorted matters out, concerned by your increasingly panicked-sounding texts.   
  
He nods down the hallway again, and you _do_ go this time, sped along by the sound of your own alarm. As you walk, you thumb through your contacts list -- his name is _right there_ . You’re not sure how you managed to forget, when you’ve scrolled past it so many times in the last year and change, but…   
  
...well, you’re glad it’s there, at least. You have a date to plan, after all…   
  
It’s then, as you flick through your phone, that you notice something strange.   
  
For some reason, it hasn’t updated since yesterday. The date still says the 13th…   
  
Your heart seizes in your chest.   
  
That can’t be the reason for the Marshal’s confusion, can it?   
  
The calendar on your desk is made of paper. It can’t be wrong like a phone could be. As soon as you get back to the office, you make a beeline for your desk, seized by a single-minded drive to know...  
  
You stare at the little piece of paper as you sink back into your chair numbly.   
  
The number 13 stares back at you without remorse.   
  
At that moment, your phone chimes with a message; thumbing it open, your stomach drops right out.   
  
> _Dinner tomorrow?_ _  
_ _  
_ You take a deep breath and type back.   
  
> _Sounds good. Do you have training after hours?_   
  
The response comes near-immediately; you can practically _hear_ the dry amusement in his voice.   
  
> _I’ll meet you after you’re done for the day._   
> _Back to work with you._   
  
It arrives in quick succession...and you’re almost positive that second message was half-joking...but you bite back the elated smile and get on with your day. There will be time to dwell on this later.   
  
Sure, you got mixed up -- but you have a dinner date _on Valentine’s Day_ with Cor Leonis.   
  
And despite telling you to get back to work, your phone chimes again; this time with a picture attached.   
  
It’s the box you’d given him, emptied of its contents. There’s hardly even the hint of a crumb in the bottom. You suppose that’s quite the recommendation, especially from someone who eats with the King often enough, if rumor is to be believed.   
  
> _They were delicious. Thank you._   
  
You can’t resist replying.   
  
> _Happy early Valentine’s Day <3 _ _  
_ > _I’m going, I’m going…_ _  
_ _  
  
_

**Author's Note:**

> *jazz hands*
> 
> I'm back, bay-bee! ~~The galaxy starlet, Tetra!~~
> 
> Which is to say, here's a nice solid-length fic. I had an idea, and I wrote it! This bodes well for the future of PF, which has been languishing lol. It'll get finished, don't worry; the plotbunnies can run, but they can't hide.
> 
> Thanks for reading :) This is, if you can believe it, the first Valentine's fic I've ever written -- and I finished it in a timely fashion, unlike the Christmas fic I wrote and still haven't finished. Maybe in time for next year? lol


End file.
